Forever Alone
by Jasmine Lita Everdeen
Summary: Doctor Who reflects on his extended life. Why does he do what he does? Why does he crave company when he doesn't need it? I suck at summaries, but please give it a read! Rated T 'cause I'm paranoid. Please R&R!


The Doctor stared at the house that he was watching. 18-year-old Lucy, a girl that he had thought wasn't the normal student that she appeared to be, was eating dinner with a book propped up in front of her. He shifted from his position on his feet. Even being a 1000 year old Time Lord didn't stop you from getting tired.

As if she had heard someone outside, Lucy looked sharply behind her. Her green eyes fixed on the Doctor's face, and he almost thought that she could see him. But she looked away and went back to eating and reading.

With an almost inaudible sigh, he went back to the blue police box and, making sure that no one was watching, slipped inside. He sniffed the familiar air of the TARDIS, and spread his arms wide.

"TARDIS, my old friend!" he cried. "I think it's time we go on an adventure, eh? All by ourselves?"

The Doctor caught a whiff of Clara's flowery perfume and smiled sadly. "Just us. No Clara."

He had lost her when... actually, he rather not think about it. It was amazing that you could get heart-broken over and over again until it became old, but the pain was new every time. Amy, River, others...

TARDIS grumbled softly. The Doctor absent-mindedly patted the control board.

It was kind of sad that he had formed these human attachments. Time after time he had sworn off those alluring sirens, just to have another one lure him in. He was just as bad as a mortal man, and that was saying something. As soon as one was over, he was looking for another one.

These accursed feelings was getting in the way. Yes, feelings. That was the explanation. That was why he loved Amy, just for him to go off with Rory, River, just for her to die, and most recently, Clara, just for her to go off deep end and kill herself.

Sometimes he wondered if he could go back in time and prevent everything like that happening. After all, he _was _Doctor Who. Only Clara had discovered his true name, and that had been erased when he fixed the TARDIS. Some secrets are worth staying like that – just secrets.

Having various other forms did benefit in some ways in this situation. The new Doctor could shed all of the old one's pain and start anew. The bad thing was that the new Doctor experienced it all over again. As the humans of this era would say: _Crap_.

And it was his turn. Many times he had fallen, broke and got back together, just to go though it again. He mused upon destroying himself so he wouldn't go though it again, then thought about what would happen to the world without him, Doctor Who, to save the day. But he wouldn't do it alone...

_Bad Doctor_, he mentally scolded himself. _Don't think about that. No more. Just carry on being a solo. Nothing wrong with that._

But perhaps he did crave to have a companion. There was someone to talk to, to scold, to laugh with, to fight for. There was meaning in his life when there was someone else in it. It gave him purpose. Just talking to yourself, no matter how intelligent you are, wasn't the best pastime, believe it or not.

Then there was the amusement factor. Watching humans try to adjust to the crazy world that he lived in was one thing that he had laughed over. That didn't happen when he did it alone. He knew the world too well to ever get lost, to ever make a bad deal with a market seller. He had committed the rulebook to his memory many centuries ago.

TARDIS grumbled again, this time louder. The Doctor blinked and patted TARDIS.

"Sorry, old friend," he said, walking back out again. "Got to go."

He dusted off his coat and made sure that his sonic screwdriver was still there. He then set off for the building that said: 'Ye Olde English Pub".

He walked inside, absorbing the atmosphere. He smelt beer and drunk people. The feel of greasiness was all around him, causing him to shudder. Neat person, he was. The booming sounds of laughter and drunken singing pounded in his eardrums, almost bursting them, but not quite.

He managed to make his way to the counter without being crushed, and slid into a vacant seat. A brawny middle-aged fellow cursed at him before going off to play another round of poker. The Doctor inwardly wrinkled his nose. He didn't know what attracted men and women to come here.

"What do you want?" the bartender bellowed at him, wiping a glass with a greasy rag.

"A beer, please," the Doctor said politely. "Normal."

The man eyed him, but slammed down a foaming tankard. The Doctor said thank you (and got a suspicious stare in return) and sipped at it. He nearly spat it out, it was that disgusting. But he liked the way it made fire burn in his stomach.

He drained his tankard and asked for another one, no manners this time. He got served again, and downed it in a gulp.

As the night wore on, the Doctor became more and more drunk. He lead a singing group of grown men and laughed over crude bedroom jokes. Many women approached him, but he had enough wits about him to not go with any. He left that for the mortal men.

Finally, at around 2 in the morning, he finally staggered out, his coat and tie missing. He got a foul mouthful from the bartender about not paying, but ignored him. His sonic screwdriver was tucked safely into his pant pockets. He splashed cold gutter water on his face, but that did nothing to ease his heartache.

He made his way back to the TARDIS, and collapsed inside. He slumped against the walls, resting his head against the coolness of the metal, tears streaking down his dirty face. Drink did nothing but increase what he knew.

No matter what he tried to tell himself, there was no point in not facing it any longer. The drink had made him face that horrible truth.

He, Doctor Who, the last Time Lord, will be forever alone.

And nothing with ever change that.

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**Please review!**


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